Page 26 of The Golden Spoon
“We’ll need to be… strategic,” Francis says carefully. “I have a plan.” She leans in to listen.
Minutes later Betsy is barreling back to Grafton in the back of theSUV. She feels a sense of dread weighing heavier on her the closer they get. She wants to be done with it all, the show, the baking. She wished that they would all just go away and leave her alone. She pictures Archie’s wide jaw. His clever repartee and fitted suits. She is stunned that he’s had the audacity to go behind her back and changehershow. That he’s tried to take the reins away fromher, Bake Week’s creator. Betsy is furious, absolutely boiling with rage.
“It’s too damn hot in here, George. Open a window!”
PRADYUMNA
It’s early still, just past six a.m. I’ve slept my typical five hours. As soon as my eyes flutter open, I shower and get dressed. Then I must immerse myself in some sort of activity. I know from experience that the only way to keep the feeling away is to keep moving. From my bedroom window, I watch Gerald pack his belongings into the back of a yellow taxi, his shoulders looking small inside his rumpled suitcoat. He doesn’t look at the manor at all as he gets into the backseat. I feel a pang of sadness as I watch him disappear.
I’m about to turn away from the window when I see the black SUV pull into the drive. Betsy Martin toddles down the front steps in her signature high heels and gets into the backseat. A thrill shoots through my chest as it silently whisks her down the drive and out of sight.
I finish getting dressed quickly and tiptoe into the hallway. With any luck the others will stay in their rooms for at least another hour, giving us just the right amount of time. I creep down the hallway to Lottie’s room. I can’t risk waking the others by knocking, so I open her bedroom door just a crack and peer in. The shades are still drawn tight across the windows, and the room is dark.
“Lottie,” I hiss.
There’s no answer, so I open the door a bit farther, slipping inside. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I make out the form of tiny Lottie lying back on the pillow. Her frame is so small, it barely makes a dent in the blanket. She is motionless, lying on her back, peaceful. She looks… I lean over closer to her and look for the rise and fall of her chest but see nothing. My heart palpitates.
“Lottie!” I call out in my full voice this time.
Her eyes flip open, and I stumble back, startled.
“Who’s there?” she says angrily, swinging her arms, pawing at the air in front of her as though trying to fight off an invisible attacker.
“Lottie, it’s me. Jesus, I thought you were dead. You almost gave me a heart attack.” I approach the bed again tentatively, my hand clutching my chest.
“Pradyumna? Why on earth would you think that?” she says irritably, glancing at the alarm clock by her bed. “And what are you doing here? It’s six-thirty in the morning.”
“Yes, I know. Get up!” I am already crossing the room, yanking open the curtains so that golden early morning light spills into the room.
She blinks, struggles to push herself up against the mountain of pillows on her bed. “What is going on with you?” She watches me rush around the room, looking more amused now than annoyed. I pause at the foot of her bed, bouncing from foot to foot impatiently. I don’t want to take the time to explain, so I lay it out for her as quickly as possible.
“Listen. I saw Betsy leave in a car just now. I think this is our chance to go explore the East Wing and see if we can find anything else about Agnes. But we have to move fast.”
I grab a bathrobe that’s hanging off the side of her chair and throw it to her. She is fully awake now, sitting up in her striped pajamas, her feet on the floor.
“Really? You’re sure?” She takes the robe.
“Positive. But I don’t know how long she’ll be gone so we’d better hurry.”
Lottie thinks for a moment. I can see the resolution settling onher face as she decides to follow me. She throws the covers back and slides her feet into a pair of slippers as I rush for the door. “Wait!” she calls out. I stop and turn back toward her, my hand resting on the doorknob.
“Are you sure you want to go? This ismything,mycrazy journey. You could risk your place inBake Weekif we were to get caught.”
I think of my place atBake Week, of the tent and the competition. How little it matters to me. How little anything matters lately. I shouldn’t even be here. Winning would mean next to nothing to me, would give me no prize I don’t already have. I am the fraud here, not because I’m no good but because I don’t care.
“Yes, you old loon. Now let’s hurry.”
“You really are something speaking to your elders that way. Ageism is not attractive,” Lottie tuts as we creep out into the hallway and make a run for the landing. We cross slowly. One of the cleaning staff comes up the stairs carrying new bed linen, and we stop to casually look up at a painting of Richard Grafton. As soon as the woman has passed, we make a break for the East Wing.
“The important thing is not to wake Archie,” Lottie whispers as we tiptoe up to the double doors. Through the glass I see a long empty hallway. I look to Lottie, who gives me a small nod, her eyes wide. I push down on the latch, and it clicks open. I wave Lottie in first, slipping after her into the East Wing and closing the door carefully behind me.
The hallway is dimly lit by oil lamps retrofitted with Edison bulbs. They flicker in a convincingly old-fashioned way as we move down the hall, carpeted with a long Persian rug. My heart rate accelerates pleasantly, relishing the risk. I don’t know what we are looking for exactly, or how we will know it when we see it, but the thrill of the hunt is more than enough for me.
Lottie turns back to me and points to the far end of the hall. Wordlessly, we creep up to a set of double doors. We pass through a small sitting area and into a large open room furnished with anoversize wooden secretary and a wall of bookshelves. A large stone fireplace takes up most of another wall with two overstuffed chairs cozied up to it. We scan the walls, taking in the shelves, which are filled with an assortment of books and knickknacks, the kinds of things you’d find on the set of a BBC minidrama—leather-bound books, a brass-handled magnifying glass, a white marble bust of a man, Beethoven perhaps, his hair frozen in close-cropped curls around his head. I open one of the drawers in the secretary. It is filled with old-fashioned pens with metal tips and glass bottles of ink. The others contain similarly obscure bits and bobs, useless for our purposes but interesting nonetheless.
“Oh, I don’t even know what I’m looking for,” Lottie whispers, sighing with frustration and leaning against the arm of one of the chairs. “This is just a waste of time. I’m so sorry I dragged you into all this.”
I ignore her. I’ve never been one to easily dole out pity, and I continue to poke around the room picking up objects on the shelves. There’s a cigar box full of unsmoked Cuban cigars, petrified by age. What a waste. I spin a large marble globe on its axis, noting its borders were drawn from a time far before the sun set on the British Empire. A Victrola record player stands at attention in the corner.
